When we’re young we’re raised to be ladies with a gentle way of handling situations. We’re raised to feel like the weaker sex, not on purpose of course. Play barbies instead of toy tractors… 

We grow up and find a career that’s a bit more “rough” than what our soft hearted mothers wanted for us. 

So we work hard and show them our determination, not the pain we go through mentally and physically. 

We deal with men that see the weak little girl struggle climbing up into the larger vehicles. 

Several months of proving everyone wrong turns into years. 

As the years pass you don’t see or feel the struggle as much. 

Your bones ache yet you smile because you remember that one time you hurt yourself years ago, a painful reminder of what not to do. 

You laugh about how naive you were. 

Every time you make it to a shipper or receiver those eyes are still on you as they wait for you to take 45 minutes to get backed in. 

The flushed burning face of embarrassment sweeps across. 

You remember a decade ago the laughter towards you.  

Doubt runs through your mind, your heart sinks. 

You look at all angles. 

The ruts in mud sink holes from failed attempts to get into a difficult door are everywhere.

You smile and remember that “one time” you screwed up. 

This ain’t nothing, I’ve been in worse places. 

With one whip of the wrist one shot.

 One try. 

Without even skipping a beat.

It feels like breathing. It’s natural. 

It’s not a struggle anymore. 

You step out and see smiles from men. 

They smile out of disbelief. 

I see the mud on thier tires, they’re the ones that got stuck in that spot. 

Shocking! A little girl did such a good job! 

**insert sexist comments from strangers. **

“I’ve never see someone back in so well, especially a girl”

“oh. Ok. Thanks?” 

“have you been driving awhile? ”

“Ya. Few years”…  as I walk pass without bothering with another comment. 

My former embarrassment from years past, I passed to him. He’s flushed from shame. 

My years of struggling something happened to me. 

I unknowingly am better than them. 

I don’t need to tell them what I’m capable of. It’s not good to “show boat ”

I sit back being the soft hearted lady my mother raised.

Written by Stacey Bredow